


Outcasts

by Hypatia_66



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Police, Race, THRUSH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:06:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24757486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hypatia_66/pseuds/Hypatia_66
Summary: Illya is kidnapped together with a jazz pianist, a temporary partnership which saves their lives.
Relationships: Illy Kuryakin & Original Character, Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Outcasts

Kuryakin opened his eyes and lay still, trying to work out where he was. He turned his head and started. Brilliant white teeth gleamed in a broad smile. “I thought you was never gonna wake up,” said a deep voice.

“I know you,” Kuryakin whispered. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, for the time being, I’m your cell mate – they put me in here to nurse you.”

“Cell mate? Nurse me?”

“Man, you was so bad, for a while I thought you was maybe gonna peg out.”

“I’ve been ill?”

“Sure have.”

“That was kind of you. I didn’t know,” he said, trying to focus. He tried to sit up. Big hands lifted him effortlessly and propped him against the wall. “Thanks, so… what are we doing here? And where _is_ here?”

“Someplace near the city, I guess. They didn’t take us far.”

“Where were we?”

“Why, in the Village. I was playing piano, you was listening.”

Kuryakin looked at him, then smiled. “Yes, of course… but why was I ill? What happened?”

“Gas,” was the unhelpful reply, and at Kuryakin’s baffled expression, he added, “you got the gas in your face, I took off back stage but ran into these guys.”

“And they brought you along – why?”

“When you are a man of colour, you don’t ask questions.”

Kuryakin stared at him. The man shrugged. “You know how it is.”

“I do know. It’s bad enough if you’re Russian.”

It was the other man’s turn to stare. “You Russian? Oh, your name’s Illya, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and I’m not Russian, I’m from Ukraine but to everyone here, that means Russia.”

“So how come you’re working ...?”

There was a noise at the door. Both men looked up as an armed guard entered. Another stood at the door as the first seized Illya and started to drag him away. “Where you taking him?” said Illya’s companion, whose name he had forgotten.

They pushed him roughly aside and hustled the Russian away, leaving his cell mate alone.

<><><>

Napoleon walked into Waverly’s office. The old man looked up. “No trace of him, sir.”

Waverly frowned.

“People saw him in that jazz club. He was close to the stage, but when the lights went out and the fire alarm went off, everyone dispersed and no-one saw either him or the piano player again. A lot of people have been sick though – something in the smoke. It wasn’t a fire.”

“Was it the club that was targeted, or Mr Kuryakin?”

“I guess it was Illya, sir. He does go there fairly regularly.”

Waverly grunted. “Didn’t anyone see where they took him?”

“He and the pianist were thrown into a truck and driven away. That’s all we got from witnesses.”

“Why the pianist? What do we know about him?”

“Ex-soldier,” said Napoleon, looking at his notes.

“Anything to do with Thrush?”

“No. We just know his name and service record. His name is Lafayette Lebron. Wounded in Vietnam, invalided out, awarded the purple heart. No pension. Hence the piano-playing, I guess.”

“Purple heart? So he was injured. Badly?”

Napoleon consulted the file. “Shot in the chest. Pneumonia left him with permanent lung damage.”

“And he receives no pension? Why not?”

“I don’t know, sir. He has a family, too.”

“Seems odd.” Waverly stared at his agent, then said, “Well, send someone to reassure his family that we’re doing all we can to find him. We need to find them both. Has the gas been analysed?”

“Samples have been taken from other victims: they’re being worked on now.”

Waverly picked up a folder from the pile in front of him. “We know Thrush has established laboratories in the vicinity of the city. Check them out – they may have taken these two young men to one of them. After the two men have been found, destroy the laboratories.”

<><><>

The guards returned dragging their captive between them. They opened the cell door, pushed him in and slammed the door shut as he fell to the floor.

His cell mate crouched down and turned him over. “Hey man, you okay?”

“I don’t feel too well,” Illya confessed, and felt himself lifted and carried to the bunk. He opened his eyes again. “Thanks. I’m sorry, I can’t remember your name.”

Lebron bent over him, examining him carefully. “Lafayette Lebron. Let me see your eyes,” he said, gently pulling down Illya’s lower eyelid.

Far from tolerant of anyone taking this kind of liberty with his person, even when kindly meant, Illya restrained his natural response and said, “What this about my eyes?”

“They’re a bit yellow – no wonder you feel bad. You need to see a doctor.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen. Anyway, they seem to know what it is – they gave me an injection and said it was an antidote. Using me as a guinea pig to see if it works.” Illya grimaced then and said, “I feel sick.”

Lebron quickly picked up the bucket, left in the cell for that kind of purpose, and brought it closer. “So, what do you do that brings this kind of trouble, huh?”

“I’m an UNCLE agent.”

“A kind of cop?”

“Something like that. You don’t need to know any more – for your own safety.” He lay back. “Tell me about yourself.”

Lebron sat beside him holding the bucket in case of need and, in the manner of a parent looking after an ailing child, started to tell his story.

“… And after I was invalided home, they gave me a choice of jobs – but only real degrading jobs. Man, I used to be a teacher before Vietnam, not a cleaner of restrooms. So, because I didn’t see why I should take them, I refused and they dishonourably discharged me – and that means no pension…”

“But, Lafayette …”

“Call me Lebron, man – everyone does – it’s shorter.”

“All right. Lebron… couldn’t you challenge that in the courts?”

“You kidding? You need money for that. I can play piano and the clubs give me work, but it ain’t enough for a law suit. I got a family to support.”

“Family?”

“Yeah. Wife, two kids – little girls.”

“When we get out of here, we’ll sort something out.”

Lebron looked quizzically down at this skinny, sick little Russian and laughed. “Yeah? You and whose army?”

“The UNCLE army. We’ll get you compensated.”

Lebron laughed his deep rumbling laugh. “First, we need to get out. Any ideas?”

<><><>

Access to the two Thrush laboratories was far from easy. Napoleon and his teams consulted via radio link. There were sure to be indications that Illya and the pianist were in one of the facilities. And indeed there were hopeful signs. The movements of Thrush scientists and guards were few, but regular, it seemed. One of the sites in particular showed signs of extra security measures. More guards, regular guard changes and little outside activity by anyone else. However, there was no cover for a hundred yards in all directions and observations suggested there were trip wires everywhere, which would make night-time raids difficult.

Napoleon gathered his men.

<><><>

When the guards returned that evening with food and water for the captives, they opened the cell door to find Illya lying ashen-faced and limp on the floor and Lebron trying to resuscitate him. He looked up and said, “We need help here – I think he’s dying. Is this condition infectious?”

The guards looked at each other. “Pick him up,” they ordered, now unwilling to touch him. “Bring him along.”

Lebron shrugged and rose from his knees with Illya in his arms and followed them out of the cell.

Lebron glanced at the terrain outside through the window they passed, measuring the distance in paces between it and an external door beyond it. The guards thrust him into a medical room off the corridor and told him to lay down his burden on the gurney and wait, then they turned to go and call for a medic. As they did so, Illya rolled off the gurney and came to his feet.

A pile-driving fist from Lebron knocked one guard flat, and a karate blow across the back of the neck from the Russian laid the other low.

“You ain’t as fragile as you look,” Lebron remarked.

“Adrenaline helps,” said Illya, and the two men, mismatched in size but clearly not in ability, grinned at each other and stripped the weapons and uniforms off the two unconscious guards.

They gagged and handcuffed them, using the guards’ own ties and handcuffs, and rolled the two men out of sight behind the gurney. Then they put the uniforms on with less than optimal results.

“Let’s make a run for it,” Lebron suggested.

“We can’t go while it’s still light. Look at us; they’ll spot us instantly,” said Illya, looking at his cell-mate’s expanse of exposed brown calf and ankle, and the folds of cloth round his own.

“How about if I put my arm round your neck – like I got a bad leg – and bend to match your height?”

Illya shook his head.

“Maybe I could find a bigger guy and get his uniform.”

Illya sighed at this optimism. “No, it’s all too risky. Listen, these two may not be missed for a while. We have their keys, so I think we should go back to the cell and wait. It’ll be dark in less than an hour. We’ll go then.”

“I saw trip wires out there when I looked out.”

“They’ll be easy to spot – we’ll be crawling.”

Illya cautiously opened the door and looked out into the corridor. It remained empty. They left the room and went quickly back to the cell. Before closing the door, Illya examined the lock on the inside to check that the key would allow them to get out again, and breathed a sigh of relief.

Lebron watched him curiously. “Seems to me, you been in this kind of situation before.”

Illya turned and smiled. “I’ve been in cells that had no keyhole on the inside,” he said. “They’re more difficult to get out of.”

Lebron looked with increased respect at this strange little guy with his deceptively inadequate appearance. “You mean, you’ve gotten out of places like this before? Man, I’d like to hear your life story!”

“Some other time, Lebron. We’ll go when the coast is clear and hope those guards haven’t been found – better listen out for sounds of trouble. I’m going to sleep for a bit, first.”

And to Lebron’s further surprise, he stretched out and did just that.

<><>

Half an hour later as the light faded and Lebron was about to rouse him – and fortunately he did not try – Illya woke and instead of lashing out at an unknown touch, sat up feeling almost human. Maybe the antidote had worked. He stood up and the room stayed where it was. “How are my eyes?” he said.

Lebron laughed. “I can’t see them in this light, but you look like you might just be recovering without the help of adrenaline.”

Illya went to the door and, turning the key very carefully, unlocked it. He opened it and listened, and quickly closed and locked it again. Heavy running feet approached and pounded past; there was shouting and the sound of gunfire. “I think the facility is under attack,” he said, now listening under the high window. “I think and hope it’s my colleagues. Let’s go.”

The corridor was now clear. They slipped out and ran along it to the door. It stood open and outside they could see flashes in the distance, accompanying the gunfire. “Get down,” Illya whispered. “We’ll go round the action. Keep behind me.”

Accepting his authority with a slight sigh, Lebron acquiesced. The training the two men had undergone, respectively in the military and Survival School, though rather different in kind, proved its worth. They moved silently and easily over the ground in the darkness. The trip wires were obvious from that position and getting over them simple enough.

Illya halted to let a stream of gunfire pass over them, apparently from different parts of the facility itself. “Do we shoot back?” Lebron whispered.

“I think our captors are shooting at each other,” Illya whispered back. “Never interrupt an enemy when he’s making a mistake.”

Lebron suppressed a chuckle. “Is that what they teach you at UNCLE?”

“No, but it’s a good maxim. Napoleon said it first – the Emperor, I mean,” he said, qualifying Bonaparte’s identity unnecessarily for this companion.

They moved on, approaching the fence that surrounded the compound. It then occurred to them that the uniforms might be misconstrued and could put them in danger of being shot at by _their_ own side – a mistake that it would be a good idea to interrupt.

Stripping off and abandoning the uniforms, they wriggled on towards the fence, then stopped to listen. Something had changed: flashing lights, angry voices and the sound of a shot came from beyond the fence. “Looks like the police have joined in,” said Lebron.

“I wouldn’t put it past Thrush to call them,” Illya replied.

“ _Bad_ news,” said Lebron with feeling. “They’ll just shoot. Worse than your Thrush people.”

Illya could see his anxious face in the flickering lights. “I hope not,” he said, not very sure himself and wondering who had fired, and at whom. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Take care, man,” said Lebron. “In the dark they wouldn’t ask questions; they’d kill us both in a heartbeat.”

“You take care – the fence is electrified. That could kill us too,” said Illya flattening himself and starting to slither under it. There was about five inches clearance and he made it.

Lebron started to manoeuvre his way into position. For a big man it was never going to be easy. He made it, however, but as he pulled himself the last few inches, the heel of his boot caught the fence and there was a blue flash. It was a painful shock and he gasped.

“Stand up! Get your hands where I can see them!” a voice snarled. There were two police officers standing above them, their weapons pointed at their heads.

All too aware of the danger of provoking armed men, they rose with their hands up. “Identify yourselves!” said one officer as the other searched them. He naturally found nothing.

“I am an UNCLE agent,” said Illya. “My friend here has helped me to escape from …”

“Shut up. What’s your name?”

“Illya Kuryakin, UNCLE Section Two agent.”

“Where’s your ID?” said the officer, handcuffing him.

“Our ID was taken by our kidnappers.”

“Yeah, yeah. You!” said the officer addressing Lebron, now also handcuffed. “Who are you?”

“My name is Lafayette Lebron.” Even Lebron wasn’t going to say “sir” to these thugs.

“We have information that thieves broke into this facility and caused damage. You’re in trouble. Why don’t I just shoot you now? Save a lotta trouble and expense.”

“It wouldn’t,” said Illya. “Where are my colleagues? An UNCLE team is here, isn’t it?”

“They’re in custody. Till we get to the bottom of this robbery.”

“It’s not a robbery. I was kidnapped – any damage was done to _me_ ,” said Illya. “They were trying to infect me with a disease.”

The officer snorted. “Oh yeah? Like why?”

“Because this is a Thrush facility where they make biological weapons.”

“It’s a medication manufacturer,” the officer responded dismissively. “Now get moving!”

He made to push Illya, who said, “And I can’t guarantee that my clothes are not impregnated with something infectious.”

The two officers stepped back warily, and waved their weapons. “Get moving and don’t try anything.”

Illya led the way, followed by Lebron with the two officers behind them. In the dark Lebron tripped, bumped into Illya and both fell. Lebron rolled aside to avoid landing on him and stood up as Illya scrambled awkwardly to his feet. At this point, as if he’d been waiting for an excuse to shoot him while escaping, one of the officers levelled his gun at Lebron. Illya flung himself in front of Lebron as the weapon went off, and both of them collapsed.

Out of the darkness and silhouetted against the flashing lights other figures came running. One called, “Stop shooting! … Illya? Is that you?”

Lebron called back. “He’s been shot by the police.”

“Put those weapons down! That’s an order!” shouted Napoleon as he came up to them. “This is an UNCLE operation.”

The two officers were now on their knees beside their victims. If this blond one turned out to be an UNCLE agent… Napoleon roughly jerked one of the officers aside. “What the hell’s going on?” He knelt beside the body of his friend, “Illya! Illya, are you OK?” There was no response and he shouted to his men to get the medics while he tried to find the wound. “Get these cuffs off!” he snapped. “Both of them, get the cuffs off both of them!”

The police officers took the cuffs off and stood back, not knowing what else to do. Napoleon looked at Lebron, now clutching his arm. “You OK?”

Lebron nodded. “I’m OK.” Napoleon turned to the officers, standing uselessly beside him.

“First, you accuse UNCLE agents of criminal activity when they are engaged in a security operation,” he said, “then you shoot one of us. There’ll be big trouble if he’s dead… you’re in trouble already.”

“They got no ID. We didn’t know who he was…” one of the officers protested.

“You were told when you arrived. You chose not to believe it. They were unarmed. Why did you shoot two unarmed men?”

“The black was running away.”

“With his hands cuffed behind his back? Don’t give me that.” Napoleon now rose as the medics came to take over. “What about him?” he gestured towards Illya. “Why did you have to shoot him?”

The officers shrugged. “Accident.”

“He jumped in front of me,” said Lebron. “Saved my life. He got the worst of the shot.”

“Hey, _you_ should have gone with the medics, too,” said Napoleon, who had forgotten Lebron’s condition in the heat of his anger.

“It’s nothing.”

Napoleon said sharply to the two officers, “You, report to my agents,” and taking Lebron’s good arm, led him away.

<><><>

“I understand those two officers have received a reprimand, which will have no effect,” said Waverly. “They should be dismissed, but they won’t be.”

Napoleon looked up, but said nothing. What was there to say? Waverly was quite right.

“How is Mr Kuryakin?”

“Complaining.”

“Ah, good. Now, what about Mr Lebron?”

“Oh, he was fine. It was a flesh wound. I’ve asked him to come in to see you, sir. He looked after Illya in that Thrush place, and saved his life.”

Waverly’s raised expressive eyebrows. “I’m happy to thank him, of course… but I see you have something else in mind.”

“Yes sir. He’s here now.”

<><>

Illya was sitting up, arms crossed, frowning at the tray in front of him when Napoleon came in.

“How’s the head?”

“It would be better for a meal I can eat.”

“If you behave nicely, I promise I’ll take you out for a meal you _can_ eat as soon as they let you go,” Napoleon said teasingly. “Now, do you want to know what we’ve managed to do for Lebron?”

Illya looked up with interest.

“He doesn’t want to join UNCLE – he thinks it’s too dangerous – so Waverly has talked to the Department of Veteran Affairs. I don’t know how he managed it but he got Lebron’s pension reinstated, and with back pay. Lebron won’t have to lead a hand-to-mouth existence any longer, and he’s going back to teaching as soon as he can find a job.”

“I’m glad – and sorry too – he’d have made a good agent … Anyway, I wish him well.”

“Tell him yourself. He’s outside… Lebron! Come and cheer Illya’s lunch!”

Lebron came in a little sheepishly. He not only filled the small room as a presence in his own right but carried a brown paper bag which emitted enticing smells that filled it even more. “Hi, Illya,” he boomed. “Napoleon thought you’d be hungry so I brought you a little something.”

“My hero,” said Illya, sitting up higher in bed and welcoming the series of containers that now filled the tray. “You’ve saved my life again. I’m going to miss you.”

“You saved mine, Illya, and your boss has given me a future. And hey, you won’t miss me. I’ll be playing piano till I get a job – and maybe after that – so I’ll see you at the club.”

“I’ll be there,” said Illya, “as soon as I can get out of here,” and he glared at the nurse who had just come in and recoiled at the sight of his tray.

**Author's Note:**

> “Never interrupt an enemy…”: Illya’s version of something Napoleon Bonaparte said in 1805 at the Battle of Austerlitz, when he spotted the allies attempting a mistaken manoeuvre.


End file.
